ssed through the
ruinous streets of what had been their home, were compelled to tread upon
the unburied remains of their fathers, husbands, or brethren. To none of
these miserable creatures remained a living protector--hardly even a dead
body which could be recognized; and thus the ghastly procession of more
than three thousand women, many with gaping wounds in the face, many with
their arms cut off and festering, of all ranks and ages, some numbering
more than ninety years, bareheaded, with grey hair streaming upon their
shoulders; others with nursing infants in their arms, all escorted by a
company of heavy-armed troopers, left forever their native city. All made
the dismal journey upon foot, save that carts were allowed to transport
the children between the ages of two and six years. The desolation and
depopulation were now complete. "I wandered through the place, gazing at
all this," says a Spanish soldier who was present, and kept a diary of
all which occurred, "and it seemed to me that it was another destruction
of Jerusalem. What most struck me was to find not a single denizen of the
town left, who was or who dared to call himself French. How vain and
transitory, thought I, are the things of this world! Six days ago what
riches were in the city, and now remains not one stone upon another."

The expulsion of the women had been accomplished by the express command
of Philip, who moreover had made no effort to stay the work of carnage,
pillage, and conflagration. The pious King had not forgotten, however,
his duty to the saints. As soon as the fire had broken out, he had sent
to the cathedral, whence he had caused the body of Saint Quentin to be
removed and placed in the royal tent. Here an altar, was arranged, upon
one side of which was placed the coffin of that holy personage, and upon
the other the head of the "glorious Saint Gregory" (whoever that glorious
individual may have been in life), together with many other relics
brought from the church. Within the sacred enclosure many masses were
said daily, while all this devil's work was going on without. The saint
who had been buried for centuries was comfortably housed and guarded by
the monarch, while dogs were gnawing the carcases of the freshly-slain
men of Saint Quentin, and troopers were driving into perpetual exile its
desolate and mutilated women.

The most distinguished captives upon this occasion were, of course,
Coligny and his brother. Andelot was, howev